Sandra Belloni — Complete eBook

Very pleasant evenings now passed at Brookfield, which
were not at all disturbed by the wonder expressed
from time to time by Mr. Pole, that he had not heard
from Martha, meaning Mrs. Chump. “You have
Emilia,” the ladies said; this being equivalent
to “She is one of that sort;” and Mr.
Pole understood it so, and fastened Emilia in one arm,
with “Now, a kiss, my dear, and then a toon.”
Emilia readily gave both. As often as he heard
instances of her want of ladylike training, he would
say, “Keep her here; we’ll better her.”
Mr. Barrett assisted the ladies to see that there was
more in Emilia than even Mr. Pericles had perceived.
Her story had become partially known to them; and
with two friendly dependents of the household, one
a gentleman and the other a genius, they felt that
they had really attained a certain eminence, which
is a thing to be felt only when we have something
under our feet. Flying about with a desperate
grip on the extreme skirts of aristocracy, the ladies
knew to be the elevation of dependency, not true eminence;
and though they admired the kite, they by no means
wished to form a part of its tail. They had brains.
A circle was what they wanted, and they had not to
learn that this is to be found or made only in the
liberally-educated class, into the atmosphere of which
they pressed like dungeoned plants. The parasite
completes the animal, and a dependent assures us of
our position. The ladies of Brookfield, therefore,
let Emilia cling to them, remarking, that it seemed
to be their papa’s settled wish that she should
reside among them for a time. Consequently, if
the indulgence had ever to be regretted, they would
not be to blame. In their hearts they were aware
that it was Emilia who had obtained for them their
first invitation to Lady Gosstre’s. Gratitude
was not a part of their policy, but when it assisted
a recognition of material facts they did not repress
it. “And if,” they said, “we
can succeed in polishing her and toning her, she may
have something to thank us for, in the event of her
ultimately making a name.” That event being
of course necessary for the development of so proper
a sentiment. Thus the rides with Wilfrid continued,
and the sweet quiet evenings when she sang.

CHAPTER VIII

The windows of Brookfield were thrown open to the
air of May, and bees wandered into the rooms, gold
spots of sunshine danced along the floors. The
garden-walks were dazzling, and the ladies went from
flower-bed to flower-bed in broad garden hats that
were, as an occasional light glance flung at a window-pane
assured Adela, becoming. Sunshine had burst on
them suddenly, and there was no hat to be found for
Emilia, so Wilfrid placed his gold-laced foraging-cap
on her head, and the ladies, after a moment’s
misgiving, allowed her to wear it, and turned to observe
her now and then. There was never pertness in
Emilia’s look, which on the contrary was singularly
large and calm when it reposed: perhaps her dramatic
instinct prompted her half-jaunty manner of leaning
against the sunny corner of the house where the Chinese
honeysuckle climbed. She was talking to Wilfrid.
Her laughter seemed careless and easy, and in keeping
with the Southern litheness of her attitude.